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THE SCOT'S ABROAD THE NICHT 



AND OTHER BANQUET POEMS 

(MAISTLY SCOTCH) 



BY 



HARRY H. JOHNSTON 




COPYRIGHTED 1913, BY HARRY H. JOHNSTON 

NEIL & COMPANY. PUBLISHERS 

TACOMA, WASHINGTON 






TO THE CALEDONIAN & ST. ANDREWS SOCIETY 

AND TO 

CLAN GORDON No. 188. OF TACOMA 

Without whose kindly encouragement these verses would not have 
been written. The hope that they may furnish some entertainment 
to the reader, be to local Scots reminiscent of those delightful occasions 

"When lo ! A ran tin' feast weel stored, 
Saured sweetly on the festive board," 

and gratify a natural desire of the author to see his rhymes in 
print, is the excuse offered for their publication. 

Tacoma, 1913. 



©CI.A34611 



TOAST TO ST. ANDREW 

'Twas Shakespeare said the evil deeds 
Of men in memory live beyond them 
While all the good that they have done 
Is buried in the ground around them ; 
And this the reason why, good sirs ! 
The toast which I am now proposing, 
Ts to a man whose goodness great 
Is at this time past all disclosing; 
Of who he was, and what he was, 
The records are but scant to teach us. 
But that he is oor patron saint 
There's no a sinner daur impeach us; 
So fill your glasses to the brim 
To one who's great and good and grand, 0, 
We'll drink the sparkling wine to him, 
The saint of all the Scots, St. Andrew- 



THE SCOT'S ABROAD THE NICHT 

Mail, Scotland! Cradle of a race 
Of men who Ve won a foremost place 
Whae'er the wid'ning warld's embrace 

Has called for honest micht, 
[f chance the passer-by should stare 
To see us a ' sae free from care, 
Soon would he learn that everywhere 

The Scot's abroad the nicht. 

There 's not a land beneath the sun 
Where Scotia 's sons have not well won 
Their right to have some mirth and fun 

And hand to hand unite ; 
Let ithers, sober, hameward wend, 
And with their fowk the evening spend, 
We'll not our brithers thus offend — 

The Scot's abroad the nicht. 

Though far from heather-crested hill, 
We hae the haggis with us still, 
And eke the pibroch's welcome thrill 

Shall fill us wi'delicht; 
We'll hear the merry pipers blow, 
We'll see their ruddy faces glow, 
They'll let the rest o' mankind know 

The Scot's abroad the nicht. 

Scot's wha hae wi' Wallace bled! 
This is nae nicht to seek your bed, 
'Tis boon companionship instead 
That fondly grips us ticht ; 



THE SCOT'S ABROAD THE NICHT 

We'll sing o' Scotland's honored name. 
We'll sing o' those we left at name, 
We'll sing sae lond men will exclaim: 
"The Scot's abroad the nicht." 

And Robbie Burns, dear Robbie Burns ! 
Whae'er the Scot this nicht sojourns, 
At thocht o' you his heart returns 

Thanks for your wit sae bricht; 
Thanks for your songs that ring sae true — 
Tis meet that we should sing o' you — 
We'll sing, and we'll be happy too. 

The Scot's abroad the nicht. 

And could we lift the veil that lies 
Between this earth and Paradise, 
We'd see aboon, beyond the skies, 

Nae doot, some robes o' white; 
But few they'd be, and far between 
The Tartan plaids that would be seen, 
Showing that up in Heaven serene 

The Scot's abroad the nicht. 

A million pipers fa' in line — 

Ah! 'Tis a sicht that's unco fine — 

They droon the harps wi' "Auld Lang Syne, 

They blaw wi ' a ' their micht ; 
The Scottish hosts with hearts elate 
Proceed at once to celebrate ; 
St. Peter cries frae oot the gate : 

"The Scot's abroad the nicht." 



BURNS 

In every age, in every land and clime, 

There has been found the poet and his rhyme, 

Inspired youth to breathe the thought sublime, 

And history turns 
No page but shows the bard has had his part 
In what was done, but none has reached the heart 

Like Eobert Burns. 

Intensely human, he could deeply feel 

With human kind their every woe and weal, 

Voicing their thoughts with true poetic zeal, 

And this is why 
No poet ever moved the world as he, 
Nor is there one that to the same degree 

We glorify. 

Be loved the modest crimson tipped flower, 

The tim'rous mouse that would frae mankind cower, 

And sad his comment on the plowshare 's power 

To lay them low; 
He was as gentle as a summer's day, 
But 'gainst Oppression's proud and lordly sway 

A fearless foe. 

Not his the verse in praise of mighty kings ; 

He loved the lowly people, and there springs 

Up from his soul fierce protest 'gainst all tilings 

Unjust and wrong; 
Servility to power, and the pride 
Of birth and station, these he did deride 

In language strong. 



BURNS 

The Calvinism which made men despair 
He swept away wi' "Holy Willie's Prayer," 
Bright 'ning the world with rays of sunshine where 

All had been gloom; 
E 'en for the Deil he great compassion had, 
Nor could he think him altogether bad, 

Or sought men's doom. 

He taught anew the brotherhood of man, 
So oft forgotten since the world began, 
And told it so that men could understan' 

How wide its scope; 
Tie showed that honest poverty's no crime, 
He roused the peasant youth to upward climb, 

And gave him hope. 

4 'What though," said he, "on namely fare we dine 
(lie to the fools their silks and knaves their wine 
But to the man of independent mind 

The pith of sense, 
The pride of worth, the manly bearing bold. 
Are better far than empty strut and gold, 

Howe'er immense." 

Small wonder, too, he loved the lasses fair, 
( )r that his songs set to appropriate air, 
Are still declared to be beyond compare, 

So sweet and true ; 
So sprightly, witty, winsome, bonny they, 
In Love's own realm they'll lead the way 

While lovers woo. 

He had his faults as who of us has not, 
A victim of the times, sad was his lot, 
Yet his the happy, cheerful mind that wrought 
That wondrous tale 



BURNS 

So oft re-told, of Tarn O'Shanter's mare, 
The nag that would not, flying thro' the air. 
His master fail. 

He brought to Scotland more of honest fame 
Than a' the kings and queens wha bore her name. 
He kindled every Scottish heart aflame 

With love of song ; 
He made all Scotsmen to their brithers kin, 
He made them hate dishonesty and sin. 

And every wrong. 

The poet, priest and prophet, aye, the king 
A boon them a', immortal bard! We bring 
Our simple, heartfelt praise in offering 

This natal day, 
And gather here, in happy unison, 
To hear once more thy matchless poems sung, 

As well we may. 



TO "BUBBLY JOCK" 

He died that men might live to eat, 
Not eat to live ; his death was meat 
For them most succulent and sweet ; 
For him extinguishment complete: 
'er his remains they muttered grace 
But thanks to him found nowhere place 
Who gave his all. 'Tis thus we scan 
The base ingratitude of man. 



GREAT SCOT(T)! 

The other day when I went out to dine 
Beside me sat an old time friend of mine, 
A lawyer, loving much to gain his point, 
E'en though he puts one's feelings out of joint; 
And thinking to have fun with me, the wag ! 
Says he : ' ' The Scotch are much too fond of brag 
To hear them talk about their land and birth 
You'd think they were the only folks on earth*' 
With that, the waiter bringing in the son]), 
Missing his footing, suddenly did stoop, 
And the hot consomme, bowls and spoons, 
Palling athwart my friend's new pantaloons. 
He quickly rose, as he had right to do, 
And shouted in a voice possessed by few : 

"Great Scot!" 

(lone was his disputation, and, instead. 
His own involuntary cry had pled, 
As laughingly 1 pointed out to him, 
An answer so convincing, trite and trim, 
It really was his duty to admit 
Of all the race of men the Scotch are ''it": 
For men when undisturbed may use the tongue 
To falsely speak, but when the soul is wrung, 
When pain and anguish come to cloud the brow 
Then speaks the heart in earnest, and somehow 
Tis then we have the concentrated thought, 
'Tis then we have what otherwise we'd not, 
The truth, from which no man should turn away, 
For then it is we hear them rise and say: 

"Great Scot!" 



10 GREAT SCOT(T)! 

You will not hear them say: Great English, Dutch ! 
Great Spanish, German, Irish! No, not much! 
To say great French would really be absurd, 
Great Swede! Great Russian? No! There's but one word 
That is akin to greatness. It brings back 
The Roman conquerors beaten in their track ; 
It breathes of Wallace, lion hearted Bruce, 
And all the lusty chiefs who played the deuce 
With England's belted knights. It tells of Burns, 
And of Sir Walter and his works, where turns 
Page upon page of history, told so well 
That 'neath the brilliant witchery of the spell 
Me wove, men said of this young author bold, 
E'er yet the ink upon his pen was cold: 

"Great Scott!" 

And so I say, what of it if we brag? 
We're not the only boasters: Where the flag 
Of any country waves there men are found 
With hearts akindle, glorying in the ground 
Of their dear native land : So here to-day 
The martial pibroch let her pipe away! 
The grand old songs ! Aye, let them all be sung, 
And Scotland's flag unto the breeze be flung; 
The heather we will wear upon our coats, 
A little Scotch to moisten up our throats, 
A nicht of glad re-union let it be, 
A nicht o' mirth, and fun and jollity — 
The landlord? An' he like not scene so gay 
What can he do but raise his hands and say : 

"Great Scot!"* 



A BREAKFAST SUPPLICATION 

(On the Morning- of a Raccoon Hunt) 

Oh, Lord ! Ye ken I seldom pray, 
Or ask thy guidance on my way, 
But like a sheep that 's gone astray 

Go stuinblin' on, 
But for some friends o' mine this day. 

Hear me this one. 

Wi' fowlin' piece and musketoon 
They 're goin ' forth tae shoot a coon, 
I'm sore afraid they'll fire too soon, 

And hit each other, 
And so, good Lord, I crave this boon, 

Save one from t'other. 

And then ye know what dangers lurk 
Around about this huntin' work, 
How many a gun by sudden jerk 

Is quick exploded; 
Guns, too, that some book-keepin' clerk 

Said wasna' loaded. 

And worse than a' my fears increased 
For fear than some fierce wild-cat beast 
Or prowlin' bear in search of feast 

They might come at : 
Or skunk, with odor swift released. 

Lord save from that ! 

Like children from their tasks set free 
They're goin' forth in sportive glee 
As blind tae danger as can be, 

Nor prayers will say, 
And so, good Lord, I ask of thee 

Hear mine this dav. 



WHEN DRUMMOND DONS HIS TARTAN 

I love this day, the day St. Andrew came 

Into the warld to win a saintly fame; 

How much of it he got from going forth 

A fisherman o' men throughout the earth, 

The trials and tribulations that he had, 

And what it was that made him look sae sad, 

Are matters to my subject not germane — 

I love this day for reasons quite as plain, 

And much more modern: First, and first the least. 

It does assure me o' a right guid feast. 

A scene of rare enchantment. Secondly, 

I have the pleasure of your company, 

And third and best, transcendent in its way, 

[ love it as the great and glorious day 

When Drummond dons his tartan. 

Twas Joseph, son o' Jacob, who first wore 
A coat o' many colors, which made sore 
His brithers; yet it was a crude affair, 
So I am told, nothing sae debonnair, 
Xothing sae handsome as the tartan plaid 
Which Drummond wears, an' which puts in the shade 
My evening dress, as doth the rainbow vie 
Triumphant wi' a dark and murky sky. 
But I'm not jealous; nay, I'm prood o' him, 
Manly o' countenance an' stout o' limb, 
Nothing more brilliant docs the sun shine on. 
Than Drummond when he does his plaidie don. 
An' e'en the moon, her rays o' silvery light, 
Are said by many tae shine not sae bright 

When Drummond dons his tartan. 



WHEN DRUMMOND DONS HIS TARTAN 13 

The pipes strike up sae martial like an' loud, 

They're handled deftly by oor aiu McLeod; 

The banqueters, obedient, fa' in line, 

St. Andrew's day, an' we're aboot tae dine. 

The Drummond, 'long wi ' Charley Patterson — 

Weel mated they — adoon the hall lead on, 

And then, all standing in their proper place, 

I hear him say once mair the Selkirk grace; 

Anon, "Fair fa' yer honest sonsie face!" 

Tae it: "Great chieftain o' the puddin' race." 

Each year brings back the fond remembered scene. 

Oor joy nae less, oor appetite as keen; 

How natural then that I should seek in rhyme 

To give expression to the happy time 

When Drummond dons his tartan. 

The feastin' o'er, then toasts an' speeches bright. 

The Scot that canna talk is not in sight, 

The monwha wrote a book — ' ' The Unspeakable Scot ' ' — 

Had he been here, would not have writ such rot ; 

John Arthur, Scot by inclination, 

On Scotchmen's skulls mak's an oration, 

And, fearful less this should not be enough 

Tae prove him Scotch, he tak 's a pinch o ' snuff ; 

While in between the songs we love are sung, 

The songs that mak' us feel we still are young, 

Bright quip an' jest an' weel told humorous story. 

Serve to round oot oor evenin's repertory; 

As Burns would say, we're feelin' glorious, 

Owre a' the ills o' life victorious, 

When Drummond dons his tartan. 

So down the path o' time we jog along, 
Sometimes a vacant seat for friend who's gone. 
We who are left will ever here be found 



\4 WHEN DRUMMOND DONS HIS TARTAN 

As often as St. Andrew's day rolls round; 
Here will we sit, an' eat, an' drink an' sing, 
Regardless what the comin' day may bring, — 
Stronger and deeper will oor kinship grow, 
Xo Men's like auld frien's as we all weel know 
Oor time will come, an' this my humble prayer, 
May God put me amang the Scotch up there, 
That I may see yon gatherin' o' the clan, 
That I may see them marchin' man tae man, 
The pipers playin', as we stand an' wait, 
Tae see St. Peter open wide the gate 

When Drummond dons his tartan. 

Mr. A. S. Drummond, of Tacoma. 



THE PAWKY SCOT 

Sandy Macintosh, Highlander, young, strong and spry, 

Had long cherished a love for sweet Maggie McKay, 

And to pay his respects in his quiet Scotch way 

Would rig up in his best at the end o' the day 

And over tae Maggie's, three lang lonesome Scots miles, 

'Cross country side mosses and waters and stiles, 

Wi' his plaidie aboot him tae keep off the chill 

Would sturdily shank it, and nae think it ill, 

Though the nicht were as dark as Auld Satan could make it. 

For the path weel he knew and could never mistake it. 

Having traveled along it for twelve months or more 

'Till it came to an end at the fair Maggie's door. 

Xoo, while Sandy persistently thus came tae woo, 
He knew naething at a' how tae bill or tae coo, 
For while weel accounted as frugal and thrifty 
In the makin' o' love he was minus the giftie, 
As though followin' the ploo and mindin' the herein 
Had taciturn made him and sparin' o' words, 
And thus did it happen that Sandy would come 
And sit by the hour as though he were dumb. 

One evening when Sandy by Maggie had sat 

For as much as twa hours as mute as a bat, 

The lassie, tae see if her laddie had any, 

Said: "For yer thochts, dear, I wad gie ye a penny"; 

Xoo, Sandy, alert at the mention o' money, 

Especially from lips that looked sweeter than honey, 

Emboldened at what was sae lucky a chance 

And giving Miss Maggie an amorous glance, 

Replied, ere he knew it: "I was thenkin'," said he, 

"A wee bit kissie ye'd be gie'n tae me." 



16 THE PAWKY SCOT 

Miss Maggie, delighted, quick gave him the kiss; 
'Twas surely a sweet one and filled him wi' bliss, 
And should anyone feel the least shocked I'll say this, 
Her aim was sae true it could not be amiss ; 
Noo, Sandy he gulpit and turned him sae red 
Flis complexion was like tae the hair on his head, 
For being from favors like this lang preserved 
The sudden endearment had left him unnerved, 
And instead of returning the kiss that was given, 
As any man would who is worthy of heaven, 
He kept what she gave him as though 'twas his due 
And he stuck tae his chair as though stickit wi' glue. 
Which, considering he got what he hoped tae receive, 
Was conduct sufficient tae mak' a saint grieve, 
And Maggie, dumbfounded, showed deep her concern 
That the laddie she loved gave no kiss in return, 
And thinkin' things never are just as expectit 
Returned to her chair feeling sairly neglectit. 

The clock on the mantel kept tickin' awa', 
As clocks do when people say naething at a', 
Most monotonously loud, and Maggie at last, 
When a guid twenty minutes had slowly gone past, 
Her mind on the kiss that had brought them thegither, 
Said : ' ' Noo, what are ye thinkin ' o ', Sandy, anither ? ' ' 
"Nay, lassie," said Sandy, "It's mair serious than that. 
Here the heart of Miss Maggie went quick pit-a-pat, 
For long had she wished tae herself he'd disclose 
His intentions — in short, that the lad would propose, 
But sudden it sank 'neath the normal when he 
Said : "Is there no a penny that's comin' tae me?" 

Provokit, Miss Maggie quick snatched up her broom 
Tae sweep "Mister Macintosh" oot o' the room. 
"Gie hame tae yer siller, ye poor, pawky Scot, 



THE PAWKY SCOT 17 

For no penny ye 'II see, neither title nor jot, 
I'm sair vexed at mysel' that I gie ye that kiss 
And I'll be muckle obleeged if ye '11 walk oot o' this!'" 
"I'll not gang one step till ye have that kiss back," 
Said Sandy, and grabbed her and gave her a smack. 
And he held her sae ticht and he wadna' let go, 
And he gave her six more, and she conldna' say no. 
And her anger, swift risin', fell doon just as fast, 
And she sank in his arms quite contented at last. 
For Sandy, afraid that his girl he might lose. 
Proposed all at once, and she couldna' refuse. 



HERE'S TAE OORSELS! WHA'S LIKE US? 

Mr. Toastmaster, and Fellow Scots ! This toast 
We have made to ourselves is clearly no boast ; 
Though somewhat laudatory, it is, forsooth, 
Just what we think it — a self-evident truth. 
Of one, an attorney, the story they tell, — 
And the story carries its moral as well, — 
When asked to name the best lawyer in town, 
Replied: "I am he, I'm that man of renown"; 
Proof being demanded, refused to submit it, 
Said: "I don't have to prove it, I simply admit it." 
'Tis so with the Scotch ; we have but to confess it, — 
What then? Why, "Nemo me impune lacessit!" 

And 'tis well that 'tis so. Why put ourselves out 

To reason a thing that's been proved beyond doubt: 

Auld Scotland, her deeds, her prowess, her glory, 

So strongly entrenched in song and in story, 

That a proverb it is: "To reach the top-notch 

Is easy enough if one only be Scotch." 

'Twould be idle indeed the proof to procure, 

For that which is certain cannot be more sure; 

hi witness whereof our seal we affix it, 

'Tis far past dispute by our own ipse dixit; 

Our own mead of praise the critics dismaying, 

Cela ra sans dire. That goes without saying. 

But someone may question: Though this be quite true, 
And it goes without saying, why all this adoo; 
Why this toast to yourselves, why this beating of drum, 
Why should you to all this self-praising succumb? 
Let me answer him thus: One night in the year 



HERE'S TAE OORSELS! WHA'S LIKE US? 19 

It is given to us to congregate here; 

To gather around the ingle-nook bright, 

To muse on the land of our birth and her might ; 

To honor the Saint who absolved us from sins, 

And, eating and driuking and toasting our shins, 

To live once again in the days of the past, 

And promise ourselves that her glory shall last 

And spread the world over where Scotchmen are found 

As strong and as true as her pipes shall resound ; 

And since toasting our shins is no crime in law 

A toast to ourselves cannot matter at a'. 

If an envious world deny us our due 
We'll speak out in meeting and tell who is who, 
We'll sing of auld Scotia, her greatness and worth, 
Her sons who've gone forth to engirdle the earth, 
We'll list to the pibroch and feel our blood stir, 
And the wild martial notes shall to us be a spur 
To do and to dare, and her fame to uphold, 
And prove to them a' we're the same hardy mold 
As our fathers who stayed the legions of Rome 
And drove back the Saxon to whence he had come. 

We 've right to be proud, and tho boasting and vaunt 

And brazen assurance and blustering taunt 

Are abhorrent to all of right thinking mind, 

And it's weel to our faults we should not be blind, 

Yet it's equally wrong to be tim'rous, shy, 

Overmodest in thought, to cast the "sheeps-eye" 

To cringe or to fawn : Men of worth that is true 

Never need at themselves to be looking askew, 

And though Burns declares the gift he weuld gie men 

Themselves they might see as others will see them, 

To how few is it given to judge well the rest, 

And I'm thinkin', ye ken, that we know ourselves best; 



20 HERE'S TAE OORSELS! WHA'S LIKE US? 

So it's up wi' the bonnet, and throw back the plaid, 
Wha's like us, the toast; 'tis our own serenade, 
The pipers will blaw, and we'll hear once again 
The tramplin' o' heath, and the marchin' o' men; 
Or, changing our mood, wander off through the bines. 
With memory returning the old happy days 
When as children we romped with laughter an' shout. 
Or later, as lovers, went idlin' about. 

'Tis a braw, braw nieht, wi' twa moons in the sky, 
And what I have said must have made you all dry. 
So what do you say tae a wee bit o' Scotch? 
Tae oorsels, noble sirs ! Tae the very top-notch ! 



OUR OWN UNITED STATES 

Oh land where Freedom found its birth ! 

Land of equality ! 
Let tyrants pause before thy laws, 

Sweet land of liberty ! 
Our fathers bade defiance to 

All kings and potentates, 
With numbers small, they built for all, 

Our own United States. 

The bond-oppressed of other lands 

Came flocking to her shore 
Resolved that they would fight alway 

To break all lordly pow'r; 
Allegiance swore unto the flag 

The kind that nought abates, 
Steadfast and true their love it grew 

For these United States. 

When slavery sought to spread its wings 

Across a land so fair, 
When civil strife took life for life 

And ruin filled the air, 
The spirit of old Bunker Hill, 

Again defied the Fates, 
And Liberty once more was free 

In these United States. 

Let history teach the lesson then 
To those who would enthrall, 

That man to man we'll take our stand 
And all their schemes forestall, 



22 OUR OWN UNITED STATES 

The native and the foreign born 
Each side by side awaits 

To fight the fight 'gainst sordid might 
In these United States. 

And when the problems that confront 

Her course adown the years, 
In Freedom's light are solved aright 

And smiles drive out the tears; 
When what our country needs to do 

With love predominates, 
We'll sing the song of glory strong 

In these United States. 



TO JOSEPH CULLEN ROOT 

Sovereign Commander Woodmen of the World 

'Tis said: "Great oaks from little acorns grow," 

A proverb none can doubt, yet this I know : 

Without the root the acorn first put forth 

There would have been no oak, which proves the worth 

Of good beginnings. The idea first. 

And then the root that with much patience nursed 

It into being, and with genius wrought 

The vigorous tree, the tree of woodcraft, fraught 

With so much real true good to humankind 

That none today so ignorant or so blind 

But must perceive its greatness, and its place 

In history, and from root to tree-top trace 

Its progress as a vital living force, 

Progressing ever upward in its course; 

And so I want you now to join with me 

And drink a toast to him who nursed the tree, 

Who gave it life when 'twas a tiny twig, 

And helped it grow until it grew so big, — 

The oak magnificent, mature in plan, — 

Let's drink this toast as only Woodmen can 

To Joseph Cullen Root, the grand old man. 



THE STATE OF WASHINGTON 

Oh, Scotland is a bonny land, 
Wi' banks an' braes, an' a' that, 
And mountain scenery that's grand, 
Wi' heather, broom, an' a' that, 

An ' a ' that, an ' a ' that, 
Wi' lasses, lads, an' a' that, 
The Lord said, when he shapit it, 

"I like my wark, an' a' that." 

But that the land would prove owre sma' 
The Lord at ance foresaw that, 
"I'll make ane big eneuch for a' 
A grander ane, an' a' that," 

An' a' that, an' a' that, 
The last he made, an ' a ' that, 
The finest land in a' the warld, 

Oor Washington is a' that. 

Her sna' crooned mountains tae the sky 
Majestic stand, an' a' that, 
Beneath, the fertile valleys lie 
Wi' flowers, fruits, an' a' that; 

An' a' that, an' a' that, 
The rose's bloom, an' a' that, 
Oh, sic a land sae fair an' sweet 

God never made before that. 

Her climate is beyond compare. 
Perfection's brand, an' a' that, 
A blend o' sea an' mountain air, 
A zepher's kiss, an' a' that, 

An' a' that, an' a' that, 
The velvet breeze, an ' a ' that, 
A simmer land the hale year through, 

We're rightly prood o' a' that. 



THE STATE OF WASHINGTON 25 

Her cities sparkle by the sea, 
By rivers, streams, an' a' that, 
'Mid golden grain and forest tree, 
Bright living jewels, an' a' that; 

An' a' that, an' a' that, 
The busy marts, an' a' that, 
Whaur trade and commerce thrive an' grow 

By honest means, an' a' that. 

Her laws are just, her lawyers — well, 
The best there are, an' a' that, 
'Twould be no fair for me tae tell, 
There hae been worse, an' a' that; 

An' a' that, an' a' that, 
Her judges wise, an' a' that, 
Sae wise they sometimes will agree 

Tae disagree, an' a' that. 

The vary best find here a home, 
Guid northern bluid, an' a' that, 
And mony Scotch folk here have come, 
The salt o' earth, an' a' that; 

An' a' that, an' a' that, 
Frae near an' far, an' a' that, 
And all wha come find Washington 

Their heart's desire, an' a' that. 

Your glasses clink then everyone 

Tae oor guid state, an' a' that, 

When she was made, His wark was done, 

Creation's best, an' a' that; 

An' a' that, an' a' that, 
God bless oor state, an' a' that, 
Sae tak' a right guid bumper Scotch 

Tae Washington, an' a' that. 



THE LADIES 

Mr. Toastmaster ! It was Rousseau who said 

To write a love letter fit to be read 

Oue ought to begin without knowing what 

One intends to write down, and then, to not 

Even know, when one finishes, a word 

Of what has been writ— a method absurd 

You may think, and yet, how pleasant 'twould be, 

At least, 'twould be very pleasant to me, 

Could I speak to this toast, and never once know 

A word I was saying, a la Rousseau. 

But, sir, to arise and tremblingly feel 

A state of excitement hard to conceal, 

A sense of unfitness so great the thought 

Of this toast to the ladies and what ought 

To be said in response makes me regret 

That ever I promised to speak, and yet 

I've only myself to blame I confess, 

Tis hard to say "no" when urged to say "yes.'" 

When importuned thus I never do know 

Just what I am saying, a la Rousseau. 

The ladies, God bless them ! Best toast of all ; 
They smile, and swiftly we come at their call, 
They frown, and our hearts are heavy as lead, 
Without them, the world how empty and dead! 
The plague and the solace, sorrow and joy, 
To win them what arts will men not employ? 
Tantalization of love stricken youth, 
And of gray bearded men, for who, forsooth. 
In offer of marriage ever does know 
Just what he is saying, a la Rousseau, 



THE LADIES 2? 

There have been men since who sadly have said 
There must have been something wrong in their head, 
Or never would they those words have expressed 
To her whose fair hand they then fondly pressed; 
And once in a while some woman declares 
Offers of marriage are nothing but snares 
Which serves to explain how she could have been 
So badly deceived, so much taken in ; 
To my way of thinking, it goes to show 
Few know what they're saying, a la Rousseau. 

But here's to the ladies! They are my theme; 
In wit and in beauty they reign supreme ; 
Their clothes, creations of infinite worth, 
The cost of the same no subject for mirth : 
Like the poet who wrote "The Old Arm Chair/' 
I love them, I love them, and who shall dare 
To chide me? (Of course, in an abstract way, 
And collectively, as any man may.) 
This sub rosa, that my wife may not know 
What I have been saying, a la Rousseau. 

The toast's to the ladies, and this includes 
The rich and the poor, the gay and the prudes, 
Blondes and brunettes, if they are not too dark — 
Happy the man who with Love's kindling spark 
Warms the affections of some woman true, 
And builds up a neat little home for two : 
A labor of love is a time well spent, 
There let them coo to their heart's content, 
What does it matter that they do not know 
Just what they are saying, a la Rousseau. 

Here's to the maiden in Industry's whirl, 
That bright clever lass, the bachelor girl — 
With a heart that's whole and a fancy free, 



26 THE LADIES 

Oh what cares she for the masculine he! 
She earns her bread to the type-writer's click, 
At work-shop or counter, and no broom-stick 
Will she have in her's, but the time will come 
When, spite of it all, she'll sigh for a home. 
She boasts of her freedom and yet does not know 
Just what she is saying, a la Rousseau. 

And then there's the maiden who did declare, 
That the fish in the sea were just as fair 
As any that ever were caught, and she "fired" 
Her nice young man of whom she 'd grown tired ; 
But the fish that had never been brought to land. 
Somehow wouldn't come out at her command, 
And the beautiful maid grew pale and sad, 
And wished she had kept the one that she had, 
And all of which proves that she did not know 
•Just what she was saying, a la Rousseau. 

Here's to the lasses auld Scotland can boast, 
The sweet bonnie lasses the lads lo'e the most, 
The Jeans and Janets and Nancys an' a', 
Marys and Annies and Nells without flaw; 
No wonder Burns wrote so beautifully when 
Such charms in the fair inspired his pen; 
But alas and alack! The fault's in me, 
Should one of them chance to look up in my e'e 
I stammer and blush, and then never know 
Just what I am saying, a la Rousseau. 

Your pardon I crave, I've rambled along 
In such a weak way, I know I've done wrong; 
A subject so choice demands that the best 
That wisdom can furnish or art suggest 
Should be spoken, and I've frittered away 
The golden moments with nothing to say ; 
And now having said it I can recall 
But one consolation out of it all : 
To-morrow will come, and none of you'll know 
A word I've been saying, a la Rotissean. 



HOGMANAY 

In France, in good old days of long ago — 

I low good they were I really do not know, 

But that's the way raconteurs, when they spin, 

A tale of ancient days, do most begin — 

In France on New Year's eve the urchins bold, 

The youthful lovers' blushes to behold, 

Whene'er they'd see them walking on the street, 

Or anywhere where they might chance to meet, 

Would loudly shout with mischievous gusto: 

<l Au gui menez!" "Come under the mistletoe!" 

It is from such a merry custom this, 

To tease the bashful swain and gentle miss, 

That northward to the land of purple heather, 

The land of bonnet, kilt, and plaid and feather, 

Of lads and lasses unexcelled by none, 

These three French words came blended into one 

To meet a welcome, and to find a place 

In national feeling full of inward grace — 

The New Year's greeting which the Scots bestow: 

Hogmanay! Come under the mistletoe! 

And so tonight we gather here to watch 

Old Time upon his sythe put one more notch, 

To say good-bye to her who cannot stay, 

And bid the year that's coming: "Hogmanay!" 



THE ANTI-TREATING LAW 

(Before the Woman's Club of Tacoma) 

Madam Toastinaster ! I rise from my seat to respond 

To this toast you have offered, though I know 'tis beyond 

The small reach of my power to even hope to "come through 1 ' 

With anything entertaining or useful to you, 

Or to this goodly company — but, since you're so kind 

As to couple my name with the toast, I don't mind 

Being tried and found wanting, for, much better defeat, 

Than to have you accuse me of offering a treat ; 

Yet, with this thought so consoling, I still wonder why 

You were moved to provide me a subject so dry, — 

Did you think that, because it had come from a "Fawcett," 

A sort of cold water suggestion, 'twould cause it 

To be the less arid and dull, or was it your view 

If I'd turn on the tap I'd come swimmingly through J ' 

T favor this ordinance, though I hope you'll not think 

I am one of those tight-wads who would take a lone drink : 

Nor lias the law my support just because it annoys 

That crusty old gentleman, Mr. L. W. Koys, 

Who looked so grim and severe, and wore such a deep frown. 

No one ever dreamed he could be for a wide-open town — 

A thing most surprising — caused the mayor to be vexed, 

And sot everyone guessing what the Deil would do next. 

J favor the ordinance not to spite Mr. Roys, 

But because 1 believe 'twill save the men and the boys 

From the snare of temptation — the "Come, have a drink!'' 

A pitfall, from whose depths, not a soul but would shrink 

Could they see to the end — a sham liberality 

That expects full return for its false hospitality. 



THE ANTI-TREATING LAW 31 

I favor this ordinance, though I don't think 'twill stop 

The men from drinking too much when they want "a wee drop," 

Nor have we right to expect the millenium will come 

Or the drouthy lone drinkers go soberly home; 

But 'twill surely help some — just how much none can say 

'Till the thing has been tried out, and the mayor's had his way; 

If it fails in its purpose it can do no one harm, 

So there's no need to worry, no cause for alarm, 

Yet, if we judge by the noise the saloon-keepers make, 

The mayor has their "goat," and the goat's chained to a stake; 

[f a man can't treat his friend, and his friend treat in turn, 

And then treat his friend's friend who has money to burn, 

And who invites everybody right up to the bar 

To have something on him, why the law's going too far 

And should be repealed — personal liberty's the cry, 

If you let this law live then our business will die! 

There is woe in their wail ; it was they who put out 

The petitions to bring this election about; 

If this law is a farce, a burlesque, a pretense, 

Then the blame rests on them for this needless expense; 

They are shrewd business men, wide-awake and alert, 

And you'll not find them squealing unless they are hurt. 

So while people take sides, and some praise, and some curse it, 
Cynics say; "What's the good, if you cannot enforce it?" 
If Pat Olsen asks his friend Hans MaeDuff to step in 
Where the lights shine so brilliant, and have two beers with him, 
And they walk up to the bar, and Pat lays down the coin 
For himself and his chum, and asks the bar-keep to join, 
And the gent with the apron says: "Nothing doing, my friend. 
Don't you know the law says treating 's now at an end 
Unless you're one of those men of munificent wealth 
With the large hearted habit of treating yourself," — 
What's the matter with Olsen 's speaking a word to MaeDuff, 
Saying; "Sure, Hans, 'tis a cold, hard world this, and enough 



32 THE ANTI-TREATING LAW 

To make a patriot weep — here's that dime that I owe," 
And Hans orders a schooner — how's the bar-keep to know 
That it wasn't Hans' own money that paid for that drink. 
With Pat's debt liquidated — now, what do you think? 

Well, it may prove ineffective in cases like this, 
But, there'll be many a time when 'twill not come amiss 
To be keeping the boys from inviting- each other 
To come take a drink, and then come take another ; 
There never was law yet someone couldn't sneak by, 
Hut it don't make it popular, this having to try; 
There's a swagger and swing to the habit of treating 
That is out of all concert with dodging and cheating, 
While every drink a man gets from the bibulous cup 
Demands a drink in return that he keep his end up; 
Its this feeling of pride that so oft loads him down, 
And in time makes another inebriate in town. 

I shall vote for this law as one step in advance, 
And if I had my own way and were given a chance 
I would cast a white ballot that the State might be dry, 
With my reasons so sure that none need ask me why; 
As a citizen, a father, a brother, a son, 
I'll be found in the fight 'till the battle is won. 



AN ATTACHMENT 

Once on a time, as all true stories run, 

A gay young widow full of mirth and fun, 

As pretty as tVe choicest rose in June, 

And worshipped much hy many a love-lorn loon, 

Had, from that natural longing love for dress 

Which ladies all seem ever to possess, 

And its accompaniment, an equal skill 

To get what's wanted and to run a bill, 

And having now no one to scold or chide her 

When prodigality would thus misguide her, 

Within the finest store in Dublin town 

Bought laces rare and many a handsome gown, 

And scorning such a vulgar word as debit 

Had all the lovely things placed to her credit. 

Now Time ran on as Time is ever running, 
And the shop-keeper, tired of fruitless dunning, 
Went into court and there sued out a writ — 
An attachment is the name that's given to it; 
And while the lady long had known the word 
And felt its presence, never once had heard 
About its legal meaning, and no awe 
Could have for it not knowing courts of law. 

It chanced that Fate, which cuts such cunning capers, 

And dares poke fun at even legal papers, 

Had named the sheriff of that classic town 

A fine young bachelor, of some renown 

For bravery, and yet so bashful he 

When in fair ladies' company, their glee 

At seeing him so tongue-tied and distressed 



34 AN ATTACHMENT 

Made him their most unhappy butt and jest : 

Now it fell out as often such things do 

The sheriff loved the fair young widow too. 

But he to press his suit could not begin 

Because of his great bashfulness within ; 

Imagine then how terror shook his frame 

When to his office the attachment came, 

Or, more correctly speaking, when 'twas brought 

And his official aid to serve besought. 

He did not dare refuse — his duty clear, 
Before the lady he did straight appear, 
And with a boldness, which was not his own, 
But born of service to the king and throne, 
Said: ''Madam, I've an attachment here for you" 
The lady, thinking he had come to woo, 
And liking much the handsome officer, 
Feeling her heart within her bosom stir, 
Smiled very sweetly at him, much elated, 
And said: "The attachment is reciprocated": 
With strange commingling of hope and fear 
He said: "You do not understand, my dear, 
Von must with me at once to court proceed!" 
Replied the lady, poutingly: "Indeed! 
From what you said, I thought you came to woo, 
And while 'tis leap-year, between me and you," 
(And smiled again, his meaning not importing) 
"I much prefer that you should do the courting.' 
Still to his duty true he said: "My hand 
Is yours, fair lady, but the king's command 
fs that before the justice you must go." 
But once again the widow said: "Oh, no, 
I do not like the justice, 'tis the priest 
Whom we will welcome to our wedding feast." 



AN ATTACHMENT 35 



O'erjoyed to find that she would be his bride, 
The marriage knot was very quickly tied, 
And then, obedient to her wifely will, 
Like all good husbands went and paid the bill. 



ZELINSKY 



The Scotch parade was at its height, 
The pipers blew with a' their might 
As though to drown the noisy drums, 
When lo a shout : "Great Scot, here comes 

Zelinsky!" 

'Midway adown the long parade 
Of Scots, clad in a tartan plaid, 
Oblivious how the people talked, 
Or stared at him amazed, there walked 

Zelinsky. 

No turkey gobbler in its pride, 
With wings outstretched on either side, 
No pea-cock in its plumage hid 
Could strut more gracefully than did 

Zelinsky. 

A group of Hebrew gentlemen 
Had closed their shops to rubber when, 
At sight of him they up and died, 
But ere they rose they gasped and cried: 

"Zelinsky!" 

But one of them survived the shock; 
Sam Andrews' heart was made of rock, 
And yet Sam cried : ' ' Mein Gott, mein Gott ! 
How could our Herman be a Scot? 

Zelinsky!" 



36 ZELINSKY 

It may be that he heard their cries, 
It maj' be tears bedimmed his eyes 
To see his Jewish friends throw fits — 
Said he: ' ; They Ml long remember it's 

Zelinsky. ' ' 

Scots wlia hae wi' Wallace bled! 
There's few dare go where you would tread. 
And yet you will concede this much, 
11 lakes some nerve to heat the Dutch 

Zelinsky. 

(rarade of Nations, Tacoma, Wash., July 4, 1911) 



"WATCH TACOMA GROW" 

(At a Seattle Banquet) 

Mr. Toastmaster and neighbors at this feast : 
I find of all my troubles 'tis the least 
Which at this time does trouble me the most, 
What I should say responsive to this toast. 
I've read somewhere by one supposed to know 
No longer 'tis considered "comme il faub" 
To speak unto the subject, and I find 
It's much the fashion now to go it blind, 
hi fact, to get some forty miles away 
From what one has been ticketed to say; 
And this not only seems to me good form. 
But much the wiser course, for what a storm 
I might bring down on my defenceless head. 
If, speaking to my subject, I should spread 
Myself in glowing terms, and let you know 
How much there is to "Watch Tacoma Grow." 



"WATCH TACOMA GROW" 37 

'Tis not because she is not dear to me, — 
Tacoma, thriving, beautiful to see, 
City of homes, wide avenues and trees, 
Fanned from the seaward by the velvet breeze 
( )f ocean, from whose wide expansive main 
Ships of all nations come and go again — 
No subject, sir, could you to me have given 
So fair to paint this side of God's own heaven. 
And for this, sir, I thank you, yet I know, 
No matter how conservatively I'd go 
In speaking to my theme — our shibboleth, 
You'd say: ''Can good come out of Nazareth .'*' 
For like St. Paul at Athens, I do find 
You are a superstitious people — blind 
To those things which you do not wish to know 
And hating much to ''Watch Tacoma ({row." 

And so I feel discretion is my course, 

'Twould be quite sad, indeed, to make things worse: 

Would they were better, for I'd like to see 

These two great cities live in harmony. 

Rivals in business, yet unto each other. 

Striving to live as brother should with brother, 

(living, when needed, each the helping hand. 

And pleased to note the other wide expand, 

Forming, as 'twere, one glorious brotherhood, 

With envy, hate and discord all tabooed. 

We have our faults down on Commencement Bay, 

We may outgrow them, and I hope we may, 

We may not distance you in enterprise, 

We may not be your victor as to size, 

But if we grow in grace, why then I know. 

You'll gladly join us "Watch Tacoma Grow." 



THE DAY, AND A' WHA HONOR IT 

'Tis Scotland's day, and they wha honor it 

.May well feel proud the ties that closely knit 

Them ane an' a' thegither come what may 

Are ties that reach far back in history — 

Back to the flood, where Noah in his ark, 

Boastful, proclaimed his ship the only bark 

To sail that waste o' waters, and made bold 

To say he carried down within the hold 

The only living group of beasties twain, 

Unmindful that one Captain .John MacLean, 

A navigator bold, had put to sea 

A week before with all his family, 

Some Shetland ponies and a Collie dog 

Or two, some oatcakes, and some grog, 

(Tae keep the chill frae oot his banes should he 

Get wet, or feel he might get wet. ye see), 

And driven northward by great stress of weather 

Made port at last beside a bit o' heather, 

A highland, dry land, promontory, 

Since known to fame as Tober Mory, 

And, straightway, claiming all in sight his ain. 

Formed a Scotch habit and the Clan MacLean. 

The Bible tells us of the Tower of Babel; 
i low Noah's sons as soon as they were able 
Conceived the impious wish to build to Heaven 
That Death's much dreaded pangs for them be riven 
I low (rod despoiled them of the language which 
He'd given their forbears, and did so bewitch 
Their tongues that none o' them could understand 
What said the other, and on every hand 



THE DAY, AND A' WHA HONOR IT 39 

Confusion reigned, and fear, that drove away 

The builders all and let the tower decay: 

But strange to say the chroniclers of old 

An interesting item left untold — 

And yet not strange, for now they could not speak 

Their former language: They could only squeak 

A made-up lingo when their tongues unbent 

And not the beauteous words the Lord had sent 

Downward from Heaven to Adam who would tell 

Mis love to Eve in sounds befitting well, 

And thus it was they failed to let us know 

The language used ere He had smote them so; 

But, recently, it gives me pleasure to relate 

Some cuneiform inscriptions of most ancient date, 

Even to Noah, have been from the ground 

Brought forth tae light, and now it has been found 

It was the Gaelic tongue those ancients spoke 

Before they did the wrath of God provoke, 

Carried by Captain John MacLean when he 

Set forth upon his voyage of discovery, 

To be preserved in sacredness and worth 

By His ain much loved people o' the north. 

Filled with the thought o' birthright such as this. 

The Scotch folk feel it canna come amiss, 

Where'er they be, at home or gone abroad, 

Tae yearly sup together, and to laud 

Their patron saint, and tell of brave deeds done, 

Of valiant struggles and of victories won, 

Of stern resolve and fixed unyielding faith 

When cause seemed lost and nothing left save Death, 

Of fierce resistance 'gainst the foreign foe, 

Of national pride and patriotic glow, 

Of homely virtues, truth and honor bright, 

Of tn\>t in God and will to do the right, 



40 THE DAY, AND A' WHA HONOR IT 

Of education favored more than wealth, 

Of oat-meal parritch and abounding health; 

Tae feel once mair the thrill of "Scots wha hae" 

As Bruce leads on his men tae victorie, 

Sing "Scotland yet," "wi' a' the honors three" 

And "Hey, to the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee"; 

Tae hold oor breath as Tarn rides on apace 

Wi' a' the imps o' Hell in maddened chase. 

Or in more quiet mood tae pipe our tune 

Where blooms the banks an' braes o' Bonnie Doon ; 

Tae let the intervening years take flight 

Ami live again the Cotter's Saturday Night ; 

Tae note the pibrochs in the distant glen 

A.S liameward conies the march o' Cameron men. 

Or to the sea-coast go wi' Lady Nairne 

And watch the fish- wife wi' her "Caller Herrin' ' ' ; 

Tae ope the book o' Scotland's wealth o' song 

While swiftly glide the enchanting hours along, 

Tae feel the joy of comradeship like this — 

Oh warld outside ! What do you know of blis 






A REMINDER 

When at Scotch banquets you will see 
The Drummond in his kiltie stand, 
A sicht that's guid for ony e'e, 
And draw, wi' manner prood an' grand, 
His dirk— the same he says he found 
Amang the whitened bones and dust 
O' dark Culloden's dreadful ground, 
(A tale I doot; nae sign o' rust 
Appear upon that trenchant blade) — 
When, as I say, you see him stand 
Like Roderick Dhu, all undismayed, 
The dirk uplifted in his hand — 
A picture which not even time 
Can fade from oot oor memory, 
A scene fit for a poet's rhyme — 
And hear him speak in eulogy 
Those famous words o' Burns' address 
Unto the painch an' tripe and thainn, 
There's none of us will think the less 
0' him, but it will do nae hairm, 
\ T or could it yet be thought unkind, 
That while it's fine as fine can be 
It's juist as weel tae bear in mind 
It was his wife, guid Mrs. D. 

Wha made that haggis. 



TELEGRAMS TO SISTER SOCIETIES 
ST. ANDREW'S NICHT 

Seattle 
It is the moon, we ken her horn, 

Slow risin' o'er Tacoma's crest; 
She whispers to us, smiling doon, 

"I like yer ain toon best." 

Spokane 

Rrither Scots of Spokane 

Are ye there tae a man 
Tae eat o' the Haggis and drink tae the Saint, 

The Auld Sangs tae sing, 

And the welkin tae ring, 
And be wi' each other the better acquaint? 

Victoria, B. C. 
St. Andrew sends this wireless doon : 
Says he: " In that Victoria toon 

Across the line, 
The Scots are much too blythe and canty, 
Their kilties much too short and scanty. 
Their speeches much too long and ranty 

For f rien 's o ' mine. ' ' 

New York 
Tacoma, from the breezy west, 

Her greetings sends to ane and a' 
We drink yer health, and may the best 

That is be yours ere cock may craw 






TELEGRAMS TO SISTER SOCIETIES 43 

Vancouver, B. C. 

Ho ! Scots of Vancouver, 

Wha love tae maneuver, 
And with single-tax mak' your city a hummer, 

We're really not jealous 

But please will you tell us 

For what will you sell us 
Your big double-jointed back-action Scotch drummer ? 

Portland, Ore. 
( !ome ye a' in oot o' the wet! Ye palmipeds 

That wander amphibious in yon soggy toon ; 
St. Andrew's nicht ! and by the ingle-nook there spreads 

A genial warmth. A hot toddy ! Come, we '11 drink her doon ; 

Here's tae the gnid Saint! 

New Westminster, B. C. 

All hail, Canucks, Westminsterites 

And Scotsmen, three in one! 
Why should we care for border line 

Can kinship be undone? 
A Scotsman once, a Scot for aye 

Wherever he may roam, 
The watch-fires on a thousand hills 

All speak to us of home. 

Toronto 
Toronto Scots are brawny chiels! 

Hey diddle, hi diddle ! 
Wi ' ample girth, the very diels 
Tae sup Scotch broth, and mak' lang spiels, 

Hey diddle, hi diddle ! 
We send you this that you'll tak' home a 
Thocht of oor ain toon, Tacoma. 



m a wis 



44 TELEGRAMS TO SISTER SOCIETIES 

San Francisco 

Scots wha helped to make a stricken city rise 

Resplendent from her ashes! This your nicht tae sing 
The auld Scotch sangs, tae make the welkin ring, 

To praise the Saint we all immortalize, 

To eat the Haggis — and by your mirth invite 
The warld tae know the Scot's abroad the nicht. 

Montreal 

Stalwart Scots of Montreal! Here's tae ye; gie's yer hand ! 
Faith ! It needs no second sight tae see yer lookin' grand; 
Wedrink your health, and mayyou have the gifts the gods bestow- 
And when yon 1 re West droj:> in a while and 
'•Watch Tacoma Grow." 

Los Angeles 

Scots of Los Angeles! On an occasion so auspicious 
We thocht 'twould be not out of place to send you our best wishes ■ 
The Scot's abroad the nicht, ye ken, in every town on earth, 
Sac here's tae guid St. Andrew, his greatness and bis worth, 
And here's tae ye! 




4 # 



